Maggie went upstairs, Molly and Isabel following her. “Come into my room, girls,” she said. Then she added, dropping her voice, “I think those bracelets are pretty secure.”
Molly colored. Isabel looked down.
“You will never succeed,” said Molly.
Then Isabel said, “Even if you do, I don’t think we ought, perhaps, to – to take them, for it would seem as though they were a sort of – sort of – bribe.”
“Oh, you old goose!” said Maggie, kissing her. “How could they be a bribe when I don’t ask you to do anything at all? But now, listen. We were tired when we got to the gallery; therefore that sweet little Merry of yours ordered fruit and milk and cake, and we ate and talked.”
“What did you talk about?”
“School, dear.”
“What was the good of your talking about school to Merry when she can’t go?”
“Can’t go?” said Maggie. “Why, she is going; only, it was my bounden duty to make her want to go. Well, I succeeded in doing that this morning. There’s the gong, and, notwithstanding my lunch, I am quite hungry.”
“Well, Andrew and Jack are perfectly mad to see you; you’ll have to devote a bit of your time to them. Dear me, Mags!” said Molly, “it must be tiresome to be a sort of universal favorite, as you are.”
“Tiresome!” said Maggie, glancing round with her queer, expressive eyes, “when I love it like anything? Let’s get up a sort of play between ourselves this afternoon, and let the boys join in; and, oh! couldn’t we – don’t you think we might – get your two friends Cicely and Merry to join us, just for an impromptu thing that we could act beautifully in the hay-field? Wouldn’t their father consent?”
“Why, of course he would. I’ll run round the minute lunch is over and get them,” said Isabel. “You are a girl for planning things, Mags! It’ll be quite glorious.”
“We might have tea in the hay-field too,” continued Maggie. “I am sure Peterkins and Jackdaw will help us.”
“Capital! capital! and we’ll get David” – David was the gardener’s boy – “to pick lots of fruit for the occasion.”
CHAPTER VI.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Meanwhile a little girl stood all alone on one of the terrace walks at Meredith Manor. Mrs. Cardew and Cicely would not arrive until rather late for lunch, and Merry and her father were to partake of it alone. Merry paced up and down very slowly. What a lovely day it was, and how beautiful the place looked with its long lines of stately trees, and its background of woods, and its terraces of bright flowers and green, green grass!
As far as the eye could reach the land belonged to the Cardews, and yet Merry Cardew, the joint-heiress with Cicely of all this wealth, did not feel either happy or contented at that moment. A girl had come into her life who had suddenly turned her gold to gray, her sunshine to shadow. She was a very nice girl, too – exceedingly nice. There was something about her which Merry found impossible to define, for Merry had no acquaintances just then in her sheltered life who possessed the all-important and marvelous power of charm. Merry knew quite well that Maggie Howland was neither rich nor beautiful. She was just a little schoolgirl, and yet she could not get Maggie out of her head. She sighed for the girl’s companionship, and she sighed yet more for the forbidden fruit which Maggie had placed so enticingly before her mental vision: the school-life, the good life, the energetic, purposeful life. Music – oh, how passionately Merry loved the very little music she had ever heard! And art – Merry and Cicely had learned a little bit of art in their own picture-gallery; but of all there was outside they knew nothing. Then that delightful, wonderful scheme of having an East End girl for your very own to train, and help, and write to, and support; and the companionship, and all the magical things which the Tristrams had more or less enjoyed in foreign schools, but which seemed to have reached a delicacy of perfection at Aylmer House!
Yes, doubtless these were forbidden fruits; but she could not help, as she paced alone on the terrace, contrasting her mode of education with that which was put within the reach of her friends Molly and Isabel, and of Maggie herself. How dull, after all, were her lessons! The daily governess, who was always tired when she arrived, taught her out of books which even Molly and Isabel declared to be out of date; who yawned a good deal; who was always quite, quite kind, but at the same time had no enthusiasm; who said, “Yes, my dears; very nicely done,” but never even punished; and who only uttered just that mild phrase which was monotonous by reason of its repetition. Where was the good of reading Racine aloud to Miss Beverley day after day, and not being able to talk French properly at all? And where was the use of struggling through German with the same instructress?
Then the drawing-master who came from Warwick: he was better than Miss Beverley; but, after all, he taught what Molly and Isabel said was now quite exploded – namely, freehand – and he only came once a week. Merry’s passion was for music more than for drawing; it was Cicely who pleased Mr. Vaughan, the drawing-master, best. Then there was the music-master, Mr. Bennett; but he never would allow her to sing a note, and he taught very dull, old-fashioned pieces. How sick she was of pieces, and of playing them religiously before her father at least once a week! Her dancing was better, for she had to go to Warwick to a dancing-class, and there were other girls, and they made it exciting. But compared to school, and in especial Mrs. Ward’s school, Merry’s mode of instruction was very dull. After all, Molly and Isabel, although they would be quite poor girls, had a better time than she and Cicely with all their wealth.
“A penny for your thoughts, my love,” said her father at that moment, and Merry turned her charming little face towards him.
“I ought not to tell them to you, dad,” she said, “for they are – I’m ever so sorry – they are discontented thoughts.”
“You discontented, my dear child! I did feel that I had two little girls unacquainted with the meaning of the word.”
“Well, I’ll just tell you, and get it over, dad. I’ll be perfectly all right once I have told you.”
“Then talk away my child; you know I have your very best interests at heart.”
“Indeed I know that, my darling father. The fact is this,” said Merry; “I”–She stopped; she glanced at her father. He was a most determined and yet a most absolutely kind man. Merry adored him; nevertheless, she was a tiny little bit in awe of him.
“What is the matter?” he said, looking round at her. “Has your companion, that nice little Miss Howland, been putting silly thoughts into your head? If so, she mustn’t come here again.”
“Oh father, don’t say that! You’ll make me quite miserable. And indeed she has not been putting silly thoughts into my head.”
“Well, then, what are you so melancholy about?”
“The fact is – there, I will have it out,” said Merry – “I’d give anything in the world to go to school.”
“What?” said Mr. Cardew.
“Yes,” said Merry, gaining courage as she spoke; “Molly and Isabel are going, and Aneta Lysle is there, and Maggie Howland is there, and I’d like to go, too, and I’m sure Cicely would; and, oh, father! I know it can’t be; but you asked me what was the matter. Well, that’s the matter. I do want most awfully to go to school!”
“Has that girl Miss Howland been telling you that you ought to go to school?”
“Indeed no, she has not breathed such a word. But I am always interested, as you know – or as perhaps you don’t know – in schools; and I have always asked – and so has Cicely – Molly and Isabel to tell us all about their lives at school.”
“I did not know it, my little Merry.”
“Well, yes, father, Cicely and I have been curious; for, you see, the life is so very different from ours. And so to-day, when Maggie and I were in the picture-gallery, I asked her to tell me about Aylmer House, and she – she did.”
“She made a glowing picture, evidently,” said Mr. Cardew.
“Oh father, it must be so lovely! Think of it, father – to get the best music and the best art, and to be under the influence of a woman like Mrs. Ward. Oh, it must be good! Do you know, father, that every girl in her school has an East End girl to look after and help; so that some of the riches of the West should be felt and appreciated by those who live in the East. Oh father! I could not help feeling a little jealous.”
“Yes, darling, I quite understand. And you find your life with Miss Beverley and Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Bennett a little monotonous compared to the variety which a school-life affords?”
“That is it, father darling.”
“I don’t blame you in the least, Merry – not in the very least; but the fact is, I have my own reasons for not approving of school-life. I prefer girls who are trained at home. If, indeed, you had to earn your living it would be a different matter. But you will be rich, dear, some day, and–Well, I am glad you’ve spoken to me. Don’t think anything more about it. Come in to lunch now.”
“I’ll try not to think of it, father; and you’re not really angry?”
“Angry!” said Mr. Gardew. “I’ll never be angry with you, Merry, when you tell me all the thoughts of your heart.”
“And you won’t – you won’t,” said Merry in an anxious tone – “vex darling mother by talking to her about this?”
“I make no promises whatsoever You have trusted me; you must continue to trust me.”
“I do; indeed I do! You are not angry with dear, nice Miss Howland, are you, father?”
“Angry with her! Why should I be? Most certainly not. Now, come in to lunch, love.”
At that meal Mr. Cardew did his very utmost to be pleasant to Merry; and as there could be no man more charming when he pleased, soon the little girl was completely under his influence, and forgot that fascinating picture of school-life which Maggie had so delicately painted for her edification.
Soon after lunch Mrs. Cardew and Cicely returned; and Merry, the moment she was with her sister, felt her sudden fit of the blues departing, and ran out gaily with Cicely into the garden. They were seated comfortably in a little arbor, when Isabel’s voice was heard calling them. She was hot and panting. She had come up to tell them of the proposed arrangements for the afternoon, and to beg of them both to come immediately to the rectory.
“How more than delightful!” said Merry. – “Cicely, you stay still, for you’re a little tired. I’ll run up to the house at once and ask father and mother if we may go.”
“Yes, please do,” said Isabel; “and I’ll rest here for a little, for really the walk up to your house is somewhat fatiguing.” She mopped her hot forehead as she spoke. “You might as well come back with me, both of you girls,” she added. But she only spoke to Cicely, for Merry had already vanished.
“Father! mother!” said the young girl, bursting abruptly into their presence. “Belle Tristram has just come up to ask us to spend the afternoon at the rectory. Tea in the hay-field, and all kinds of fun! May we go?”
“Of course you may, dears,” said Mrs. Cardew at once. “We intended motoring, but we can do that another day.”
Mr. Cardew looked dubious for a moment. Then he said, “All right, only you must not be out too late. I’ll send the pony-trap down to the rectory for you at half-past eight o’clock.”
“Oh, but, father,” said Merry, “we can walk home.”
“No dear; I will send the little carriage. Now, go and enjoy yourself, my child.”
He looked at her with great affection, and she felt herself reddening. Had she hurt that most dear father after all? Oh! no school that ever existed was worth that.
CHAPTER VII.
DISCONTENT
On that special afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Cardew happened to be alone. The girls had gone down to the rectory. This was not Mrs. Cardew’s At Home day, and she therefore did not expect any visitors. She was a little tired after her long drive to Warwick, and was glad when her husband suggested that they should go out and have tea all alone together under one of the wide-spreading elm-trees.
Mrs. Cardew said to herself that this was almost like the old, old times of very long ago. She and her husband had enjoyed an almost ideal married life. They had never quarreled; they had never even had a small disagreement. They were blessed abundantly with this world’s good things, for when Sylvia Meredith of Meredith Manor had accepted the hand of Cyril Cardew she had also given her heart to him.
He and she were one in all particulars. Their thoughts were almost identical. She was by no means a weak-minded woman – she had plenty of character and firmness; but she deferred to the wishes of her husband, as a good wife should, and was glad! to feel that he was slightly her master. Never, under any circumstances, did he make her feel the yoke. Nevertheless, she obeyed him, and delighted in doing so.
The arrival of their little twin-daughters was the crown of their bliss. They never regretted the fact that no son was born to them to inherit the stately acres of Meredith Manor; they were the last sort of people to grumble. Mrs. Cardew inherited the Meredith property in her own right, and eventually it would be divided between her two daughters.
Meanwhile the children themselves absorbed the most loving care of their parents. Mr. Cardew was, as has already been said, a great merchant-prince. He often went to London to attend to his business affairs, but he spent most of his time in the exquisite country home. It was quite true that discontent seemed far, very far away from so lovely a spot as Meredith Manor. Nevertheless, Mr. Cardew had seen it to-day on the face of his best-loved child, his little Merry. The look had hurt him; and while he was having lunch with her, and joking with her, and talking, in his usually bright and intelligent way, her words, and still more the expression of her face and the longing look in her sweet brown eyes, returned to him again and again.
He was, therefore, more thoughtful than usual as he sat by his wife’s side now under the elm-tree. He had a pile of newspapers and magazines on the grass at his feet, and his favorite fox-terrier Jim lay close to his master. Mrs. Cardew had her invariable knitting and a couple of novels waiting to occupy her attention when Mr. Cardew took up one of the newspapers. But for a time the pair were silent. Mrs. Cardew was thinking of something which she wanted to say, and Mr. Cardew was thinking of Merry. It was, as is invariably the case, the woman who first broke the silence.
“Well, Cyril,” said his wife, “to find ourselves seated here all alone, without the children’s voices to listen to reminds me of the old times, the good times, the beautiful times when we were first married.”
“My dear,” he answered, starting slightly as she spoke, “those were certainly good and beautiful times, but surely not more good and beautiful than now, when our two dear little girls are growing up and giving us such great happiness.”
“That is true. Please don’t misunderstand me, love; but you come even before the children.”
He felt touched as she said this, and glancing at her, said to himself that he was indeed in luck to have secured so priceless a woman as his wife.
“We have had happy times together, Cyril,” she said, returning his glance.
“Yes, Sylvia,” he answered, and once again he thought of Merry’s face.
“Nothing can alter that,” she continued.
“Nothing, my love,” he said.
Then he looked at her again, and saw that she was a little troubled about something; and, as was his custom, he determined to take the bull by the horns.
“You have something on your mind, Sylvia. What is it?”
“I have,” she said at once; “and something of very great importance. I have a sort of fear that to talk of it with you may possibly trouble you a little. Shall we defer it, dear? The day is so peaceful, and we are so happy.”
“No, no,” he replied at once. “We will take the opportunity of the children being perfectly happy at the rectory to discuss the thing that worries you. But what can it be?” he continued. “That is more than I can imagine. I have never seen you worried before.”
Again he thought of Merry, but it was impossible to connect his wife’s trouble with his child’s discontent.
“Well, I will tell you just out, Cyril,” said his wife. “I urge nothing, but I feel bound to make a suggestion. I know your views with regard to the girls.”
“My views, dear! What do you mean?”
“With regard to their education, Cyril.”
“Yes, yes, Sylvia; we have done our very best. Have you any reason to find fault with Miss Beverley or with Vaughan or Bennett?”
“Unfortunately,” said Mrs. Cardew, “Miss Beverley, who, you know, is an admirable governess, and whom we can most thoroughly trust, wrote to me yesterday morning saying that she was obliged to resign her post as daily governess to our girls. She finds the distance from Warwick too far; in fact, she has her physician’s orders to take work nearer home. She regrets it immensely, but feels that she has no alternative.”
“Provoking!” said Mr. Cardew; “but really, Sylvia, I wouldn’t allow it to upset me if I were you. Surely there are plenty of other Miss Beverleys in the world; and” – again he thought of Merry – “we might perhaps find some one a little less old-fashioned.”
“I am afraid, dear, that is impossible, for you will not allow a resident governess in the house.”
“I will not,” said Mr. Cardew with decision. “Such an arrangement would break in on our family life. You know my views.”
“Yes, dear; and I must say I approve of them.”
“You must find some one else in Warwick who is not too tired to take the train journey. Doubtless it would be quite easy,” said Mr. Cardew.
“I went to Warwick this morning in order to make inquiries,” said Mrs. Cardew in her gentle voice, “and I grieve to say there is no one who can in the least take the post which dear Miss Beverley has so worthily filled. But I have further bad news to give you. Mr. Bennett is leaving Warwick for a better post in London, and we shall be at our wits’ end to get the girls good music-lessons for next term.”
“How provoking! how annoying!” said Mr. Cardew, and his irritation was plainly shown in his face. “It does seem hard,” he said after a moment’s pause, “that we, with all our wealth, should be unable to give our girls the thorough education they require.”
“The fact is this, dear,” said Mrs. Cardew, “and I must speak out plainly even at the risk of displeasing you – Cicely and Merry are exceedingly clever girls, but at the present moment they are very far behind other girls of their age. Their knowledge of foreign languages is most deficient. I have no doubt Miss Beverley has grounded them well in English subjects; but as to accomplishments, they are not getting the advantages their rank in life and their talent demand. Dear Cyril, we ought to forget ourselves and our interests for the children.”
“What has put all this into your head?” said Mr. Cardew. “As, for instance – ” He paused. “It seemed impossible–”
“What, dear?” asked his wife very earnestly.
“Well, I may as well say it. Has Merry been talking to you?”
“Our little Merry!” said Mrs. Cardew in astonishment. “Of course not. What in the world do you mean?”
“I will not explain just at present, dear. You have some idea in your head, or you wouldn’t speak to me as you do.”
“Well, the fact is, when my cousin, Lucia Lysle, was here yesterday she spoke very strongly to me on the subject of the girls’ education, and urged me to do what I knew you would never for a moment consent to.”
“And what is that?” asked Mr. Gardew. “I seem to be an awful bugbear in this business.”
“No, dear, no. I quite understand your scruples, and – and – respect them. But Lucia naturally wanted us to seize the opportunity of two vacancies at Aylmer House, Mrs. Ward’s school.”
“I shall soon begin to hate the name of Mrs. Ward,” said Cardew with some asperity.
“My cousin spoke most highly of the school,” continued Mrs. Cardew. “She said that two years there, or perhaps a little longer, would give the girls that knowledge of life which will be all-essential to them in the future.”
“Home education is best; I know it is best,” said Mr. Cardew. “I hate girls’ schools.”
“I gave her to understand, dear, that those were your views; but I have something else to tell you. You know how attached we both are to the dear Tristrams.”
“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Cardew with impatience.
“Well, at supper yesterday evening Mr. Tristram began to talk to me on the very same subject as my cousin, Lady Lysle, had spoken of earlier in the day.”
“Very interfering of Tristram,” replied Mr. Cardew.
“He didn’t mean it in that way, I assure you, my love; nothing could be nicer than the way he spoke. I was telling him – for I had not mentioned the fact to you, and it was troubling me a little – about Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett, and asking his advice, as I often do. He immediately urged Aylmer House as the best possible substitute for Miss Beverley and Mr. Bennett. I repeated almost the same words I had used to Lucia Lysle – namely, that you were dead-set against girls’ schools.”
“That was scarcely polite, my love, seeing that he sends his own daughters to school.”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Cardew; “but of course their circumstances are very different.”
“I would be sorry if he should feel that difference, Sylvia. Tristram is a most excellent fellow.”
“He is – indeed he is!” said Mrs. Cardew. “Feeling for him, therefore, as you do, dear, you may perhaps be more inclined to listen to an alternative which he proposed to me.”
“And what is that, my dear?”
“Well, he thinks we might occupy our house in London during the school terms of each year–”
“During the school terms of each year!” echoed Mr. Cardew in a voice of dismay. “But I hate living in London.”
“Yes, dearest; but you see we must think of our girls. If you and I took the children to town they could have governesses and masters – the very best – and would thus be sufficiently educated to take their place in society.”
Mr. Cardew was quite silent for a full minute after his wife had made this suggestion. To tell the truth, she had done a somewhat extraordinary thing. Amongst this great lady’s many rich possessions was a splendid mansion in Grosvenor Street; but, as she hated what is called London society, it had long been let to different tenants, for nothing would induce the Cardews to leave their delightful home, with its fresh air and country pursuits, for the dingy old house in town. They knew that when the girls came out – a far-distant date as yet – they would have to occupy the house in Grosvenor Street for the season; but Mrs. Cardew’s suggestion that they should go there almost immediately for the sake of their daughters’ education was more annoying to her husband than he could possibly endure.
“I consider the rector very officious,” he said. “Nothing would induce me to live in town.”
“I thought you would feel like that, dear. I was certain of it.”
“You surely would not wish it yourself, Sylvia?”
“I should detest it beyond words,” she replied.
“Besides, the house is occupied,” said Mr. Cardew, catching at any excuse not to carry out this abominable plan, as he termed it.
“Well, dear, at the present moment it is not. I had a letter a week ago from our agent to ask if he should relet it for the winter and next season, and I have not yet replied to him.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, Sylvia! We cannot go to live there.”
“I don’t wish it, my love.”
The pair sat quite silent after Mrs. Cardew had made this last remark.
After a time her husband said, “We’re really placed in a very cruel dilemma; but doubtless there are schools and schools. Now, I feel that the time has arrived when I ought to tell you about Merry.”
“What about the dear child?” asked her mother. “Isn’t she well?”
“Absolutely and perfectly well, but our dear little girl is consumed by the fever of discontent.”
“My dear, you must be mistaken.”
“I am not. Listen, and I will tell you what has happened.”
Mr. Cardew then related his brief interview with Merry, and Merry’s passionate desire to go to Aylmer House.
“And what did you say to her, love?” asked his wife.
“I told her it was impossible, of course.”
“But it really isn’t, dear, you know,” said Mrs. Cardew in a low tone; “and as you cannot make up your mind to live in London, those two vacancies at Aylmer House seem providential.”
At these words Mr. Cardew sprang to his feet. “Nothing will ever shake my opinion with regard to school-life,” he said.
“And yet the life in town–”
“That is impossible. Look me straight in the face, Sylvia. If by any chance – don’t, please, imagine that I’m giving way – but if, by any possible chance, I were to yield, could you, my darling, live without your girls?”
“With you – I could,” she answered, and she held out her hand to him, which he raised to his lips and kissed.
“Well, I am upset,” he said. “If only Miss Beverley and Bennett were not so silly, we should not be in this awkward fix. I’ll go for a ride, if you don’t mind, Sylvia, and be back with you in an hour’s time.”
During that ride Mr. Cardew felt as a strong man does when his most cherished wishes are opposed, and when circumstance, with its overpowering weight, bears down every objection. Beyond doubt the girls must be educated. Beyond doubt the scheme of living in London could not be entertained. Country life was essential. Meredith Manor must not be deserted for the greater part of the year. He might visit the girls whenever he went to London; but, after all, he was now more or less a sleeping partner in his great firm. There was no necessity for him to go to London more than four or five times a year. Oh! school was hateful, but little Merry had longed for it. How troublesome education was! Surely the girls knew enough.
He was riding home, his thoughts still in a most perturbed condition, when he suddenly drew up just in front of a little figure who stood by the roadside, attired as a gipsy, with a scarlet bandana handkerchief twisted round her head, a short skirt reaching not quite to her ankles made also of scarlet, and a little gay blue shawl across her shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine in one hand and in the other a great bunch of many-colored ribbons.
This little, unexpected figure was seen close to the rectory grounds, and Mr. Cardew was so startled by it, and so also was his horse, that he drew up abruptly and looked imperiously at the small suppliant for his favor.
“If you please, sir,” said Maggie Howland, speaking in her most enticing voice, and knowing well that her dress magnified her charms, “will you, kind sir, allow me to cross your hand with silver and let me tell your fortune?”
Mr. Cardew now burst into a merry laugh.
“Why, Miss Howland,” he said, “I beg your pardon; I did not recognize you.”
Maggie dropped a low curtsy. “I’m the gipsy girl Caranina, and I should like to tell your fortune, kind and generous sir.”
Just then the pretty face of Cicely was seen peeping over the rectory grounds. She was dressed as a flower-girl, and looked more lovely than he had ever seen her before.
“Why, dad, dad,” she cried, “oh! you must come in and join our fun. Mustn’t he, Maggie?”
“I am Caranina, the gipsy girl,” said Maggie, dropping another low curtsy, and holding her little tambourine in the most beseeching attitude; “and you are Flora, queen of the flowers.”
“Well, really, this is entertaining,” said Mr. Cardew. “What queer little minxes you all are! And may I really come in and see the fun?”
“Indeed you may, dad,” said the flower-girl. “Oh, and please we want you to look at Merry. Merry’s a fairy, with wings. We’re going to have what we call an evening revel presently, and we are all in our dress for the occasion. But Maggie – I mean Caranina – is telling our fortunes – that is, until the real fun begins.”
“Do please come in, Mr. Cardew. This is the height of good luck,” said Mrs. Tristram, coming forward herself at this moment. “Won’t you join my husband and me under the shadow of the tent yonder? The young people are having such a good time.”
“I will come for a minute or two,” said Cardew, dismounting as he spoke. “Can some one hold Hector for me?”
David was quickly summoned, and Mr. Cardew walked across the hay-field to where the hastily improvised tent was placed.
“No one can enter here who doesn’t submit to the will of the gipsy,” remarked Caranina in her clear and beautiful voice. “This is my tent, and I tell the fortunes of all those kind ladies and gentlemen who will permit me to do so.”
“Then you shall tell mine, with pleasure, little maid,” said Mr. Cardew, who felt wonderfully cheered and entertained at this al fresco amusement.
Quick as thought Maggie had been presented with a silver coin. With this she crossed the good gentleman’s palm, and murmured a few words with regard to his future. There was nothing whatever remarkable in her utterance, for Maggie knew nothing of palmistry, and was only a very pretense gipsy fortune-teller. But she was quick – quicker than most – in reading character; and as she glanced now into Mr. Cardew’s face an inspiration seized her.
“He is troubled about something,” thought the girl. “It’s the thin end of the wedge; I’ll push it in a little farther.”
Her voice dropped to a low tone. “I see in your hand, kind sir,” she said, “all happiness, long life, and prosperity; but I also see a little cross, just here – ” she pointed with her pretty finger – “and it means self-sacrifice for the sake of a great and lasting good. Kind sir, I have nothing more to add.”
Mr. Cardew left the tent and sat down beside the rector and his wife. Maggie’s words were really unimportant. As one after the other the merry group of actors went to have their fortunes told he paid no attention whatever to them. Gipsy fortune-tellers always mixed a little sorrow with their joyful tidings. It was a bewitching little gipsy after all. He could not quite make out her undefined charm, but he was interested in her; and after a time, when the fortune-telling had come to an end and Maggie was about to change her dress for what they called the evening revels, he crossed the field and stood near her.